Epistle The Second Poem by Robert Anderson

TO MISS E. C---E, IN SCOTLAND.

Sin' first I wrote R. A. his book,
God gie him grace on it to look!
I've fash'd my friens wi' monie a line;
In tuneless rhyme, in senseless prose;
Now teazin' these, now pleasin' those,
As folly, whim, or friendship chose
To rule this head o' mine.

Tho' weel acquaint wi' monie a ane,
Of a' the lave, how few I ken,
Wha can for sense wi' ye compare!
Woo lass! had I auld Ramsay's skill,
Or like Ayr's Bardie, wit at will,
'Twou'd pleasure gie, to drive the quill,
That ye my verse might share!

But he wha cheerfu' does his best,
Guid--natur'd sauls forgie the rest;
Sae nought hae I frae ye to fear.
Driv'n by wild Autumn frae ilk bow'r,
Where linties late did wild notes pour,
In cot retir'd, I'll ryhme an hour,
To please a frien sae dear.

Now far frae town the sportsman flies,
Proud to ensnare the harmless prize;
Be his, sic pleasures to enjoy!
To range o'er mountain, muir, and heath,
Charm'd wi' ilk sound that echoes death;
My aim shall be, while I draw breath,
To save but ne'er destroy!

The hollow blasts begin to bla',
And frae the trees, leaves twitt'rin' fa';
A lesson seemin' aft to gie:
For ere anither Autumn come,
They'll rustle o'er the narrow tomb
O' monie, wha now boast health's bloom,
And may be, thee, or me!

Life's simmer, Bess, is thine and mine,
But hastnin' quick to a decline;
That 'tis sae, haith, I find fu' weel!
Time's snatch'd the forelock frae my pate,
And hope that made this heart elate,
Now lea's me mourning o'er my fate,
A luckless, rhymin' chiel.

What then, like me, baith rich and puir,
Maun painfu' trials here endure;
Yet man, weak man's his greatest foe:
A something ay appears in view,
The fleetin' shadow we pursue;
And if o'erta'en, this aft is true,
It adds but to our woe.

Wou'd we enjoy the envied state,
Whilk mortals truly may ca' great,
On pleasure we shou'd ne'er be bent;
Reason shou'd o'er ilk thought preside,
And honesty ay act as guide;
Syne let what will on earth betide,
We ay may rest content.

Niest to give life a double charm,
And slander o' her rage disarm,
Friendship shou'd temper weel the whole:
But true it is, we seldom find
That social tie amang mankind;
Int'rest o'er aft enslaves the mind
That ought to think for all.

To this gie riches, that a name;
To ane gie pow'r, anither fame;
And let ambition's sons ay rule:
Gie me a sonsy honest friend,
On whom I may wi' truth depend,
And cheerfu' I'll to puirtith bend,
Nor envy fortune's fool!

But in life's journey, gin we meet
A leel true saul, whase converse sweet
Can soothe a while the throbbing heart;
That jillet, fortune, steps atween,
And changes quick the happy scene;
Syne a' we boast is what has been,
Ay laith sae suin to part.

Just sae it far'd wi' us, I trow,
Ere hawf acquaint, awa' thou flew;
Tho' distant, Bess, I swear to thee,
While genius, worth, I can discern,
Or aught o' virtue wish to learn,
Howe'er by fate I'm thrawn astern,
Remember'd thou wilt be!